


This thing

by Templeton (StAnni)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Angst and Feels, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 17:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/Templeton
Summary: It takes ages for them to reach a level of normalcy, or as close as possible as they would be able to get to it, in their relationship.There is a point where Stiles worried, when he was at college and Derek didn’t come to pick him up after classes anymore, or when Derek got involved with a pack from Alaska, that Stiles had been waiting for their life to start, together, in vain.But it happens, not right away, but it does.





	This thing

It takes ages for them to reach a level of normalcy, or as close as possible as they would be able to get to it, in their relationship.

There is a point where Stiles worried, when he was at college and Derek didn’t come to pick him up after classes anymore, or when Derek got involved with a pack from Alaska, that Stiles had been waiting for their life to start, together, in vain.

But it happens, not right away, but it does.

After they move in together Derek buys a café. “It is a bad investment” is all Stiles can say. But he does smile when Derek grins excitedly at an old broken typewriter he wants to put on the registrar for some or other reason. It is all very uninteresting to Stiles who is more of a flat screen kind of guy, but Stiles appreciates the fact that Derek can picture himself in a day to day job. “Is this going to be a gay bar?” Stiles asks, deadpan but teasing and Derek swats at him, hooks him by the chest and pulls him to him. “No.” Derek says before pushing his face into Stiles’ neck – his stubble coarse against Stiles skin – smelling him deeply. “Then you’ll get hit on by dudes and chicks” Stiles finishes and he can feel Derek smile, his breath hot against Stiles’ cheek “So just another day of the week then.”

When Stiles was in college their intimate life was confined to Stiles’ dorm room whenever his roommate wasn’t around (and once or maybe twice – three times tops – very, very quietly, when his roommate was around). On the odd occasion Derek’s pack had not invaded his entire apartment like the cast of a very violent episode of Jersey Shore, Derek took Stiles to his bedroom and with strong hands that left bruises on the inside of Stiles’ thighs, pushed Stiles down to his knees – his after having traced Stiles’ jaw, slipped into his mouth and Derek spoke in a low, heady voice “Just like that.”

In the apartment that they share now, they take their time to christen every flat surface. Derek has an appetite and wakes up most mornings already glistening with pre-cum, and either whispers to Stiles to climb on top of him, or asks Stiles to get on his knees for him. The first month is a haze of sex and innuendo. They get into everything, from rough, over the side of the couch quickies before Stiles leaves for work to long spanking sessions where Derek, belt in hand, makes Stiles beg for every strike. Derek develops an affinity for rimming Stiles for hours on end on Saturday mornings and gets rock hard when Stiles, panting and desperate, grabs him by the hair and fucks his mouth with his straining cock, chasing his own release until he comes with a cry down Derek’s throat, or in his open mouth, or on his chin and chest. 

The sex doesn’t peter out fast, but over time Stiles’ work life gets a bit more hectic – when he is done with his training he starts with his field work and the bar also starts to get busy.

They have moments where they do not get along, where they have to take a break from each other. Stiles is well aware of the fact that Derek is patient and mild up until he is pushed to his boiling point. Unfortunately, Stiles has a habit of pushing Derek to his boiling point more often than not. It is not that they are not working out – it is just that their relationship is perhaps different to the run of the mill romantic comedy. It’s more of a romantic horror. Or a romantic docudrama about a war. 

Their circle of friends are limited to Malia, Lydia and Scott when he is in town.   
Derek has an old friend, Marina, a pack-master from the west coast who comes to visit every so often. She is not particularly fond of Stiles though and considers him beneath the station of a werewolf back – which is very funny, since her shirts are made of latex.   
Stiles’ obsessive need to clown around grates her as him trying too hard and she doesn’t get his sense of humour at all. 

When she visits for a week shortly after their second anniversary (which they do not celebrate because they are not those type of people according to Derek) it almost causes a world war. 

Stiles has to stop himself from tricking Malia into ripping Marina’s throat out on a dare. Derek, of course, sides with Marina – or not sides with her, but presents what he calls “a reasonable argument” to justify her continued on and off presence in their lives. Basically, Derek tells Stiles to put up with Marina or not get in her face. 

Shortly after her adoptive father dies, Malia comes for a visit and things go south very fast. Derek, irked by Malia’s continued blind loyalty to Scott and only to Scott – at whomever’ s cost (in this instance, her adoptive father) – picks a fight and Stiles intervenes, incensed that Derek would even bring up what happened with Scott at such a time. The fight gets very ugly very fast and becomes about several little irritations and issues boiled into a dangerous tangle of hooks and blades – and after a furious yelling match, poking turns to shoving and Stiles punches Derek square under the left eye, to Malia’s exasperated “Holy shit you assholes, enough!”

Never in his life has Derek ever raised a hand to Stiles and whilst Stiles’ assault did not do any type of physical damage at all, the look on Derek’s face – the absolute shock – sends a stab of remorse like a hot knife through Stiles’ gut.  
“Malia can you give us a minute?” Stiles breathes out to her and she leaves without a word – happy to leave the toxic situation.   
At that point in time, it is their darkest moment and Stiles breaks down in tearful apologies to Derek – who stares at him, stoic and shaken.   
The next morning Malia is gone – there is a note explaining that she changed her plane tickets and a number of a “therapist guy for you” (She doesn’t say who the “you” is but Stiles thinks that she can only mean him, or the both of them together).  
Stiles, having slept on the couch, goes to Derek first, shattered and ready to accept any consequences his action may have. Derek is quiet and he says “Maybe we should call this. Maybe we’re not built for this.” He can feel the life drain away from the world, slowly and painfully. “You want to break up?” His voice doesn’t sound like his voice, it doesn’t’ sound like anyone he knows. It feels as if another Stiles is asking a question he would never ask.  
Derek stares at Stiles for a long minute – his eyes dark and serious, but growing softer, kinder. His answer is so quiet, so sincere, Stiles almost misses it “No.” 

There are these relationship building exercises that Malia’s “therapist guy” forces them to inflict on each other – which range from hilarious to insane.   
They have to tell each other five things every day.   
Five things of anything that will make them reconnect.   
They start with five movies they want the other to see. Derek says “Ladybugs, watch it five times” and Stiles gives Derek a list of movies, neatly written down and numbered, ending at number 42.  
Stiles then suggests that they name five books that they suggest the other one reads. Stiles struggles to pick five out of the seven hundred and ninety four that he apparently already has in mind – each time rethinking his suggestion. Derek can’t name one – citing that Stiles has “read all the books”, so he goes for Empire Magazine. The UK version.   
When it comes to non-verbal exercises, “soul gazing “ and “forehead to forehead breathing” they are both in tears of laughter. That night they don’t fuck. They make love. They haven’t made love in a very, very long time and it is a wonderful change of pace – slow and long and close. 

In the Winter of that year, Derek brings three new omegas into his pack. The teenagers turn up at ridiculous hours of the night wanting either some obscure range of information or general advice of the romantic kind. It is beyond irritating and Stiles shoves through their clogged doorway sometimes, giving Derek ireful warning looks.

It is during this time, too, that Lydia hangs out with them more, having broken up with the last of her ever revolving string of beaus after Peter left for good.   
She sighs and tells Stiles that it comes to a point where they have to either ask her to pay rent or ask her to leave. 

Derek, who has always kept Lydia at arms-length, pulls Stiles aside one afternoon while Lydia is drinking wine on their balcony. “She doesn’t feel right, babe” His eyes are grave and Stiles looks at him as if he is crazy “What does that mean?” Derek struggles to vocalize, which they are working on, but basically explains that he just feels something is off about her.  
To that Stiles rolls his eyes and assures Derek that she is just lost and needs some time with friends. 

After two months it becomes nice having a girl around the place. Derek seems to relax more, having Lydia around to help at the bar takes some stress of him. And Stiles and Lydia soon fall into their old rapport, and the familiarity, the safety of it – taking them back to a time before everything went bad with Malia’s adoptive father, and before the ultimatums, deaths and Scott having to pick a side – and not picking theirs – feels like the home you can never return to. It feels like they are in a loophole, tricking the system that seems to rule and ruin their lives.

Stiles doesn’t mean it to happen. 

But he does see it coming. He always sees everything coming.  
He also knows that he needs to avoid it, and if hoping holds clout he really, really, really hoped that it would not happen.   
But it does. 

And afterwards he has his head in his hands, sitting on the edge of the guestroom bed, still naked and racked with guilt. Lydia’s voice is soft “We shouldn’t tell him. Just pretend it didn’t happen.” 

Of course that is the only option.   
Stiles can’t imagine losing Derek. 

But it does happen again. And it gets easier and easier. And they get more comfortable with the risk, reckless even.   
After a while Stiles can even justify it. He can even pick fights to justify it to himself. 

Derek works long hours at the bar. Derek doesn’t ask about his day. Derek was in a bad mood yesterday. Derek didn’t pick up milk after he specifically asked him to. 

It is Lydia’s birthday dinner and Derek is waiting outside the bar bathrooms when they exit, flushed and sated. Lydia stops in shock, her hand mid-tuck in her skirt.   
Stiles’ legs feel like water.

His face is unreadable – eyes on Stiles’. He doesn’t look angry, or surprised. He quietly asks, tells, Lydia to leave and they stare at each other.   
Stiles’ mouth is dry and his mind is racing with any possible explanation/excuse/lie that he can come up with but before he can breathe it out Derek stops him, his voice very low “We should get back to the table.”

Malia is blabbing away about something that Stiles is too dazed to follow and Lydia is red faced and staring at her plate. Derek nods along, eyes distant, but pretends to listen. 

The drive home is absolute silence and Derek doesn’t look at Stiles once. 

Stiles, for his part, attempts to construct a lie in his mind that would give Derek a bit of the truth with as little pain as possible. And naturally, that would allow Stiles some room to beg for forgiveness.

When they reach the apartment Derek unlocks the door and Stiles goes in first, as usual. He takes off his coat and waits for Derek to ask, to talk but he doesn’t. Derek looks tired, his broad shoulders are slightly slumped and he avoids looking at Stiles – his face is sad, dark. 

“It wasn’t the first time.”

It should be the place to start. Stiles knows to start with a truth. His voice is even but his heart is beating wildly. And he knows that Derek is listening to the ragged beat.   
And Derek nods, without saying a word - like he knew.

“I’m so sorry.”

Another truth.

Derek goes to sit at the kitchen table. Not the couch in the lounge. Not the bedroom. He leans forward on his arms, his face in his hands and he waits - he listens.

“It has been going on for two months.”

And that is a lie. But the truth is uglier there, and more full of thorns. Derek doesn’t need to know the details about that.

“It happened once, when I was angry…” Which is true “…and then it became easier to go to her than try to…address what was happening here.” Which is also true “It is not serious and it will not happen again” Which is the absolute and final truth.

And after that Stiles realizes that he doesn’t have anything else to say but to repeat “I’m so sorry, Derek”

Derek gets up slowly. He looks at Stiles and his eyes are conflicted – which is a look Stiles has seen before, and he is sadly hopeful. At least Derek is thinking about what he said.

His voice is uneven when he speaks, but it is low and controlled. “I don’t want to talk about this right now, Stiles.” He says and goes to the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Stiles sleeps in the guestroom that night but around three AM he quietly pushes open the bedroom door. Derek is awake, staring at the ceiling – and he looks at Stiles, eyes guarded. “You need something?” He asks quietly. Stiles steps into the room but doesn’t go any further. “I can leave. If you need space, I can go, Derek. I’ll go and come back when…”

Derek cuts him off by sitting up, pushing back and leaning against the headboard, not looking at Stiles anymore. “You and Lydia…” Derek starts and Stiles has to step closer, he has to correct Derek “No there is no me and Lydia, there is no us…” But Derek simply continues “…you have a history. I mean, I knew about the crush, because you were young and obvious at the time “ Stiles doesn’t move “But it goes deeper than that.”

It’s not accusatory or an invitation for Stiles to explain, it is simply stating a fact. Stiles knows that Derek has made up his mind and that he is laying his reasons out now. Stiles knows that it is over.

“I think that you should leave, Stiles, and I don’t think you should come back.”

When he finally looks at Stiles there is no anger in his eyes, no resentment. Derek looks tiredly resolved, he looks heart-broken and the dull ache of regret sweeps like ice water through Stiles’ veins.

“Please, don’t, Derek. Don’t do this.” Is all that Stiles can manage before Derek gets out of bed and walks past Stiles, quietly keeping his distance, and to the kitchen where he pulls his jacket from the coat rack. Stiles pleads with him, desperate “Please. Don’t do this.”  
Derek shakes his head, not looking at Stiles “I can’t be here… I can smell her on everything now…on you. I can’t be here.” 

It’s not Lydia’s fault, it’s not even partially Lydia’s fault – Stiles knows. She was vulnerable, lost and alone. And she is devastated by the destruction that their affair has caused. He knows that she shouldn’t be the one that he phones, but she is the only person he can talk to, the only person who knows, other than Derek. “You have to fix it, Stiles, you have to talk to him, promise him that we won’t ever see each other again, tell him you will do whatever it takes, Stiles, you have to fix this…” 

Derek doesn’t come home for two days – the bar remains closed - and Stiles doesn’t leave the apartment. He can get another place, he can move in across the hall, into the empty apartment there – sit by the peephole, watch Derek’s door, day in and day out. He actually considers this, seriously, more than once.

But on the third day Derek does come back, enters the apartment quietly, takes the keys to the bar and heads out.  
Stiles sleeps on the couch through it and the only way that he knows that Derek was there is because Derek has draped a throw over Stiles’ feet, freezing in the morning chill. 

Stiles finds Derek at the bar, wiping down the tables and setting the chairs on the floor. Derek watches him as he enters, and when Stiles stops a few feet away – keeping a respectful distance, Derek looks away, his face unreadable. Stiles must have taken six hundred showers in the time that Derek has left and he wonders, for a second, whether he smells overwhelmingly like eucalyptus. He doesn’t step closer and Derek finally speaks to him, his voice even and quiet. “You haven’t left the apartment yet.” He states. He doesn’t sound angry, he doesn’t sound sad. He just sounds tired – bone tired, actually, like he hasn’t slept in days.  
Stiles shakes his head, “I guess I…I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.” 

Derek indicates to a bar stool. “Want to sit down? Beer on the house?” 

Stiles will take any single sliver of opportunity that Derek is willing to give him and settles in on the stool quietly, watching Derek’s strong hands pour him a beer. The bar is empty except for the two of them and sitting inside of it, dark and not yet awake, feels like sitting inside of another world – which Stiles has some experience with.

“Where did you go?” Stiles asks, because he can’t help himself, because he will always want to ask, he will always want to know. He may never stop fucking up, he may have countless flaws, but the best thing about his life is Derek, whether he is there or not, so Stiles will always want to know.

Derek, as if having read Stiles’ mind, smirks – just slightly – just enough to give Stiles a spark of courage – and shaking his head, answers quietly “I had to think for a while. I had to be nowhere, you know.”

Stiles nods in silence – he does understand. He doesn’t think that Derek knows just how much Stiles’ life revolves around understanding Derek. Even if he does, admittedly, fuck things up every now and again.   
Derek moves closer when he hands the beer and he raises his eyebrows. “You’re…very clean.” He says, amused and Stiles’ heart lifts. “Yeah, we have on soap left.” Stiles deadpans and Derek’s chuckle feels like salve on a burn wound. 

It becomes quiet again and Derek leans down on his elbows, crossing his arms and running his fingers up and down the spot in the crook, and the gesture, the movement, is so guileless, so Derek that Stiles has to look away as he sips the beer. “It’s not easy, this thing” Derek offers and Stiles forces himself to look at Derek’s down-turned eyes, the lashes dark and still. Stiles doesn’t even realize when he reaches out, runs a finger down Derek’s jaw, that he has does it until Derek looks at him, eyes tranquil. He pulls his hand back and Derek doesn’t move. “Sorry. I…that was…I don’t know what that was.” Stiles stammers and sits back a bit, shaking his head. 

It is then that Derek leans forward to kiss him, gently catching the back of his neck and pulling him into it, slowly and tentatively. It reminds Stiles, painfully, of their first kiss, many many years ago – when things were much simpler, but also much more complicated. Derek doesn’t pull away after, but leans into Stiles’ neck, his stubble rough against the skin there. And Stiles closes his eyes – listening to Derek breathe him in, and out.


End file.
